Yo, Data Roaming Charges May Apply
by wayouttamyleague
Summary: What is Detective Esposito to do when his long anticipated vacation is turning out to be downright boring? He's off duty, VERY off duty in this quirky low-brow crackfic. Het Rated M for sexual content and vulgarity.


**Warnings: Rated M Het Explicit Crackfic. Javier Esposito/OFC.**

******Comedy? Steam? Depends on your sensibilities & size of your Espo-crush.** My other fics may show some 'promise' for writing and content; go read those if you want a real story. Here we pull over to use the greasy rest stop on our journey towards good storytelling. In those short-sighted moments when eating fast food sounds like a good idea, this half-cocked Mary, half-witted Sue might provide some distraction. 

**Hate mail can be directed to my lazy beta's, who just goaded my posting.**

**Disclaimer: Not my Castle character, though I wouldn't kick him outta my fic. **

* * *

"Bitch, Please. You couldn't handle this much man, even if you were sober." Javi says this into the night, as he holds the door to open. He's directing his general trash talk at the disappointing results of the whole evening as much as he is trading banter with me. _**I **_didn't turn him down at the bar. That crazy neon bitch was full on loco for turning down 'this much man.'

Yeah, we are both definitely tipsy. Judging by the profanity, the better judgment of 'real life' is on holiday for both of us, too.

The un-duplicable smell of McDonald's fry vats hits us both in the face, as we stumble into the garish bright lights of fast-food purgatory.

"I friggen love when you use vulgarity, Detective Esposito." I grab onto one of his shoulders and lean in, feigning a little more intoxication than I am actually feeling at the moment. The hardness of his shoulder under the thin button up dress shirt is startling, even though I couldn't expect anything else.

I lean in a little more just to set his expectations for a _**very**_ drunk sidekick. I'm hoping this will allow me to get away with all sorts of shit I know to be wholly inappropriate for 'barely acquaintances.' This isn't a date. We didn't even come together. This is a friend of a friend running in the same circles tonight, and somehow, I am the only one who tagged along with his run for late night food. I just put myself in the right place right time, I guess. No sparks had flown my way. At least none that he had ignited intentionally.

To be fair, this isn't the first time I have considered a one-on-one encounter with this particular New York Detective. It is just the first time _**he**_ has been in the room while it happens. My cousin Shay works at the 12th precinct. After I noticed this guy in her 2007 NYPD calendar, she took every opportunity to send me photos, clippings and snippets of news that highlighted his better 'assets.'

All in good fun, Shay is the crazy cousin off duty, but I know she takes her job seriously. I don't even know if that is the name she uses at work, since most of our family has nicknames that completely replace official greetings at clan gatherings. As a kid I thought Aunt Cookie had the coolest name ever, until I realized that Raefella is how her co-workers address her.

At first, my cousin's teasing was just funny, but I can't deny that now I have fully grown into the fantasies of seeing this hunk in action. But he doesn't need to know any of that. I'm not stalking him. Tonight's meeting is just a coincidence, honest. And more than anything my designs on him remain a longshot. But who could really blame me for trying? I mean, _look at him!_

The smell of his spiced perspiration, under all the cologne he wore to go out to the club, is even more unnerving than I thought to prepare myself for. I mistakenly let out a "Yummmm." Ooops, falling too hard into my drunk girl role. Time to stare hard at the illuminated menus above the cashiers to play it off. He'll totally buy that I just "yummed" over hot apple pie, right?

Without pulling away, he jerks his head hard to the right to check out my expression, tucking his neck in so my too-close face will come into focus.

Be cool. Play it off. Pretend to be reading menu options. Crap I'm guilty-smiling! So busted.

"Exactly how many Castle-tini's did you drink tonight, Miss I'm-from-Maine-and-it's-my-first-time-in-LA?"

"All of them." I let my smirky smile loose across my face and rock up on my toes, deviously claiming the guilt for something else entirely.

"Well, some grease should help." He's willing to get back to the plan, and shirk it off. Whew!

"I'll have an Angus Chipotle Bacon, no fries, unsweetened iced tea."

Why is he staring at me like that? Oh crap, it's my turn to order. Right. What could I possibly eat right now?

"Uh, how about a strawberry milkshake." Hmm, What else? I have to make it at least _look_ like I'm here for the food. "Hot apple pie. And, uh, do they have churros here?" I turn to Javi, "I totally want a churro before I go back to Maine."

"You don't want the churros here. I'll take you for legit churros. That's not in this neighborhood."

"Alright, its a date." I winked at him, flirting mercilessly.

The grin I am giving the cashier is probably the most obnoxious 'I'm-out-with-the-hot-guy-and-you-are-working-fast-food-on-Saturday-night' ever. I feel like a horrible person. I try to squish my permagrin into something less callous. She just rolls her eyes under her visor. Maybe I can tip her big to make up for it. I scan the counter. Is there such a thing as tip jars in McDonald's? No, I don't think that's a thing. I'm just a bad person. I have to live with it. Ugh.

I dig out the sweaty twenty from under the strap of my bra. Oh shit, I am going to make her touch this nasty bill with all my club dance sweat all over it. Burning in hell, seriously. How do I live with myself?

"I got this."

He didn't turn around to see that. Thank god! I swear I'll do penance. Anything you ask, 20 homeless people are getting money at the end of the off ramp tomorrow. I wont even let them squeegee my windshield. Oh shut-up, self, you sound like a deranged moron. Pull yourself together. You didn't actually fuck it all up yet. Get your head in the game.

His shoes scuff lazily on the floor tiles as he drifts over to the other side of the registers, tapping his credit card unconsciously on the counter as he waits for the order to come up. From this profile, I notice how straight his posture is. Does anyone really stand that straight? I bet actual active duty soldiers don't even stand like that on line at Mickey D's.

He's looking at me. What'd I do now? What are those eyebrows for? Oh crap.

"Sorry, 'scuse me." I scoot out of the way so people behind me can order. Good time to play up the drunk thing.

"Apparently, I really need something to absorb the alcohol" Play it off. Drinking is cool. Leering not so much.

"Well, all that sugar isn't gonna do much about that. You'll probably just get a headache, and _**more**_ dizzy." He chuckles, shakes his head at my stupidity.

Good, he still thinks this is funny.

"Somehow, I knew you'd be a no carb guy."

"Not always. That's for certain occasions." He is playing it totally straight-faced. Does he really think that I don't know he means 'after-sex' by that explanation?

"Yeah, pancakes are fricken mandatory morning after, right?"

Now his eyebrows are up. He knows I'm not going to let this go.

"Unless there are mimosas, I guess."

Nice, playing along. Good development.

"And more time to 'sleep in'?"

I hope that came out like feminine innuendo more than locker-room filth. Where is he gonna go here? I didn't give him any obvious bait.

"So, they have Sunday brunch in Maine? I thought it was all wool sweaters and yatching."

"We keep ourselves amused. But yes, way too many sweaters. We all glow blue-white come spring when it's time to strip down to shorts and swimwear."

Well, that's a big smile. _And_ he has to drop his head to release his expression before looking up again? A little too much laughter at my banter; he's hiding something. Good, at least I'm getting to him.

Still waiting for food. That's fine; I don't know what I'm going to do with it when it gets here anyway.

"You enjoying LA?" Nice recovery into small talk, Detective. He's so cute when he's being respectable.

"Yes, you?"

"Yeah. I been before. I have cousins and an uncle here. We always hit the same spots. I didn't plan anything really new to do this time round. So it's kinda like deva ju." He sounds bored to tears talking about his plans.

"I don't know _**what**_ I'm doing here. Maybe you could gimme some pointers where to go? I'd hate to get home and have missed all the good stuff. My facebook peeps will be sooo disappointed."

"What? Don't they have Instagram in Maine?"

Sarcasm, ah, he's getting more comfortable with me.

"Yeah, but that's for my cool friends. They get the good stuff. Facebook is for high school friends and ex-boyfriends. They need the showing off, right?"

He smiled at this. Recognition. Excellent.

"Well, let's start now." He puts his arm around my waist, brings out his phone, pulls me in tight beside him and 'selfies' us.

"Wait try again. I wasn't ready."

"K."

This time he places his puckered lips against my cheek before he clicks.

"Oh, I can do better than that. Again!" How many times would he let me get away with this?

"Here." I grab his hand and cup it onto my breast, bend my back and legs in Betty Paige silhouette, and put on my best faux-surprise naughty face. Good thing I reapplied that dark lipstick. This is gonna Instagram awesome.

"Lemme see." I totally played off any interest in his hand having just been on my breast.

"Whoa. Looking Good, Detective Esposito. That is gonna burn some cruddy exes for sure. You should hire yourself out." I wink at him on the word 'out.' Telling the truth while play-lying is totally my favorite thing to do. _'__With words,__' _I correct myself.

"Oh, Oh. I know. Will you record a ringtone for me?"

I start tapping my phone prompts vigorously. If I'm excited enough, I can bulldoze right past any objections he might have. This is drunk girl. No need to claim responsibility for any of this tomorrow.

"Say 'Mamacita.'" I hold the microphone side of my cell up near his mouth, and prop my elbow on his shoulder, pretending I need to lean on something and just assumptive closing my pitch that we are totally familiar enough to touch each other like this. My body is saying, _'__It__'__s all casual, and in good fun. I have no intention of fucking you in the restroom stall or anything.__' _

Hmm. I can't imagine the restroom here is anything like sanitary. Good thing my plan is fairly shoddy and not likely to go anywhere.

"C'mon." I basically jump up and down. How could he say 'no' to this much silliness?

He laughs a little. "Alright, alright. You ready?"

"No." Again telling the truth. I might just collapse upon hearing. I tap the buttons. Focus on the buttons. "Okay, Go!"

Beep. "Mamaciiiiiita." Long pause while I check to see if I'm still alive. I tap phone blankly. Beep.

"Oh. My. God. My plane tickets are now a bargain."

I hit the replay command to test the recording. "Mamaciiiiiita" comes through in a voice further away but somehow even more tawdry.

"How did you learn how to do that?"

He laughs, and wipes his mouth with the back of his palm. I'm making him a little embarrassed, but he's still with me. At least he's laughing. No more Mr. I'm-too-cool-cause-I'm-at-a-club.

"Seriously, do they pull you aside in hot Latino school and say" in my big intimidating man voice "'This, boys, will come in handy when you want women's panties to fall off." I continue my fan gush, totally playing off any interest in the voice-over actor. I'm pretending that I'm only in love with the performance recorded on my phone. "Criminy! That's criminal scorch."

More laughing. Good. He's definitely blushing now. Even in the yellow lights reflected off the backlit menus, his cheeks are definitely pink.

And our food. Perfect, that gag needed a break before shit got too crazy. Give him a moment to recover. He's only NYPD. Manners, East Coast sexual repression, he's not used to the likes of me. Let him ease into it.

* * *

He slides into his seat and starts unwrapping the sandwich. I just look at my pie, no way I am eating it. Maybe I could sip some shake so as not to raise suspicions. Uih, that's gross. Yeah, definitely not drinking that. Just let it slide back down the straw after pulling some up to your lips.

He looks up after he swallowed a few bites. "Not ready to eat?"

"These things? Have you never eaten one of these?" I poke at the still closed apple pie box. "This little pocket of hellfire will still be atomic in half an hour. I have no interest in burning off half my tastebuds. Then those churros you're buying me for breakfast will be totally worthless."

Cue patented Javi one eye-brow raise. Now we are getting somewhere.

"What? Did you think you were getting out of that? After you just sextified my incoming calls for the next six months?" My thumb hooks over my shoulder to indicate the scene of his performance.

Let's impersonate me at work. "Thank you for calling Dr. Edelstein's office. Would you like to come in for a cleaning? Oh excuse me, can I place you on hold? I have an incoming call from," Now here's my best porn star breathy voiceover, "Mah-Mah-Ciiiiii-Tah." Oh that was pretty good. Meg Ryan's got nothing on me. I could totally fake an O in McDonald's after midnight. There's barely anyone in here anyway.

He locks eyes with me, but no words, or even a hint at where his expression will be going. He takes a sip of his iced tea. A long sip. Damn, is he going to finish it? I can't just sit here in the crosshairs. I take my drink in my hand and bring it to my lips, slowly pulling up the pink shake, but I have no intention of breaking eye contact.

This is the longest fake sip of a drink in the history of ever. I might actually have to swallow some of this if he doesn't break soon. Still no reaction. How much liquid is in that drink of his? He's actually swallowing. C'mon, slurpy empty sound! Save me! I'm dying here.

Oh, the pucker of his lips around that straw. Damn that's good. Fuck. My eyes slipped down. I lost eye contact. Stupid distraction. I blame twitter. I used to be good at this.

When my eyes travel back up to his, I can see the triumphant smile of victory spreading across his face. He shakes his head, gloating.

"What?" Be plaintive. Play it up. "You did that on purpose. I could've stayed in that game a lot longer, if…"

"If what?" He challenges. He knows I have nothing to front with. It is written all over me now. He is calling my bluff.

"If….I…." I glance around. St. Christopher please gimme an out. A really good one. One that will NOT involve me going home to eat cheese covered nachos in my hotel room tonight _**alone**_. I freaking hate nachos. Eiihck.

My body seizes upon the idea before my brain can catch on. A fully cognizant expression flips my features and I smile through my dirtiest bedroom eyes. My brain still can't catch on, but my body deeply knows that I am already going to will this to happen. _'__What the hell is the __'__this__'__?__'_ my brain demands.

I watch my own hand reach out and dip its middle finger low, a la slutty Chicago jazz dancer. It boldly strokes his smooth hairless forearm with full confidence that he will light on fire with my touch.

What the fuck am 'I' doing?

Finally my body sort of answers my pre-frontal cortex, 'Nothing short of willing him into surrender.' It says, 'Watch.'

My right foot is traveling up. It contacts inside his knee, and traces along his thigh, straight to… Oh my god, what am I doing? There, that's soft. And my shoe is oh so hard. Where is his eyebrow raise to confirm this is happening? C'mon. Give me the eye brows.

Yes! _And_ they are sly disbelieving. Oh, this is better than I could have hoped.

I re-start my sentence nice and slow, "If…I…," bringing the game back to action with my best salacious broadcast. Leaving no doubt this is innuendo, I say, "didn't need to use the rest-" I scrape my foot back down his thigh roughly, "room." My turn for an eyebrow pop.

His eyes are locked on mine, obviously deciding his play. He leans back, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and crumples it to nothing in his clamped fist.

Will this be enough to woo the cop outta giving a damn about the many penal codes I am asking him to break? He isn't in his home jurisdiction. Isn't wearing anything that gives him up as a cop. Though I imagine his badge is hidden under there somewhere. Oh my god. I never considered whether his gun is strapped to his ankle. Jesus. H. Christ. Please let me find out.

Finally, he glances toward the hallway leading to the restrooms. Was that it? Was that my confirmation? His expression is still flat.

I turn ever so slowly in my seat so I can see what he sees with that glance. Then slowly I turn back to him. _'__Let it be good news,_' I implore that patron saint of bachelors before I meet his eyes.

He gives me a silent head nod flicked toward that very direction.

* * *

We are off to the races, ladies and gentleman. Here I go. I'm walking toward the hallway. I can't feel my legs as they float under me. Am I actually drunk now? Please don't let me fall off these heels. Hallway check. Kinda darkish, un-replaced overhead lightbulb. That's kinda good, fewer ways to highlight all the many details that make this a bad idea when he walks down this hallway to follow me.

Women's room, check. And is there anyone inside?

No! Jackpot! And there were only two older guys eating in the dining area. So, that just leaves one female worker as the potential bomb that could go off on this hair-brained scheme.

Larger stall? Toilet? Oh, please be clean. Yes! Thank you Saint Marta the blessed protector of all the cleaning women who ever graced this side of LA, I love you. Only a woman could be so miraculously kind to a total stranger. Please whoever did this don't be freaked when I ask your manager if I can send you on a spa day to thank you for this amazing job you did in here. I promise not to be too creepy stalker-ish when I make sure that your supervisor actually gives you my gift, instead of keeping it for herself. Hm. That's never going to work. Hopefully, I can figure out a better plan _**after**_ my brain cells detox from this hormone rush.

Seconds are ticking by like hours. There isn't enough make-up in the world to make me happy with my skin under these fluorescent lights. Good thing I'm so flushed with dancing that my cheeks are at least pink.

Wash hands. Bizarre pink soap smell is better than germs.

I lean my body back against the wall of the stall. Am I actually gonna use this condom I tucked inside the hidden pocket? Don't get ahead of yourself. He might not show. He might wait for you to come out of the bathroom like a normal person who didn't hear any raging innuendo. He might…

SLAM

…break the door off it's hinges so the whole world comes to check on the commotion!

My eyes wide, incredulous, I let out, "The fuck?"

He pushes my shoulders back against the stall wall, and closes his mouth over my words. I hope he's got 'security' taken care of, cause I can't even bother to care about whether the outer door has rebounded closed, let alone the inner one.

His tongue is soft and hot, and tastes stringent from the tea. I could eat this flavor for days. I'm never gonna order anything except unsweetened tea off the menu ever. He continues to kiss me, my tongue responds. But my head is still on its own errands. Please let my legs hold out. Feet, grip those heels. Hands, grip…nothing to hold onto on this wall.

What am I thinking? Hands, where are his hips? I am kissing Javier Esposito!

Clumsily, I fumble my hands forward through the space between our bodies. The back of one hand contacts the front pocket of his trousers. I reorient my palms to face him and smooth my way around his waist to his back and down, down. Oh my god, it feels even better than it looks. It feels somehow _**not**_ as rock hard as I imagined while I watched him dance at the club. It was a little fleshier, and that made it more real-life, more actual-human, more intimate. He is really here with me.

My hands squeeze of their own accord. It is all I can do to keep my nails just playfully digging into his backside, without scraping them painfully through his flesh and possibly breaking the mood.

"You like that?"

O shit, he's gonna talk to me? I'm possibly more screwed than I imagined. If my legs turn to rubber, or I freeze up with stage fright, I will never forgive myself.

I nod helplessly. Letting my heavy breath speak for me.

"Well then you should feel this." He grabs my left hand and slides it back around to the front of his pants, so I can feel the urgent body part that brought him into the room in the first place.

It shouldn't be that big already. There should be neck kisses and biting of his earlobe required. _'__There should be,__'_ my right hand starts to move in answer to my minds image, _'__my hand running through his short hair, awakening whatever sensitivity the back of his neck might have. Just like this.__'_

He lets out a little groan as my hand appreciates the curve of his neck where it meets his scalp.

The unguarded sound from his throat laces up every muscle from my pelvis to my rib cage.

"Aye Poppi" I sigh. I certainly hadn't intended to let _**that**_ pass my lips this early in the festivities.

In control of his lust, he phonates with the deepest pitch gliding out of his throat, "Oh, I think I have something else for you." He closes his teeth around my bottom lip, and waits, just waits for me to react. He doesn't bite.

A desperate breath-sigh heaves out of my chest and my hand _has_ to clamp a little tighter around the hardness still trapped under his too many clothes. I need to hold onto the sensation of him hard, as much as my grip on reality. Please, skin! Oh cutaneous receptors, confirm that there is no turning back now. I'm barely hanging on, let alone capable of reeling him in, at this point.

His slow determined teeth close on my lip and stay there. I wriggle like a fish on a line.

So glad we have no need for lubrication here.

Did I say that out loud. No? Thank god.

With his hand still holding mine against his prize, he guides me through a slow stroke down and up, making sure I feel everything waiting for me.

My brow folds in on itself in painfully torturous helplessness.

Noting how easily affected I am by him. His eyes get slightly more wicked. He pulls his head back a little to take me in.

He's raising his expectations. He's thinking about it. What does he want?

I can see the three essential elements converge in his mind:

Stall. Freak. Opportunity.

What does he want on _**his**_ phone later?

"Take off my belt." The first command is in. Not so scary.

He catches hold of my hand, and throws it away.

"Teeth."

Okay scary. Not the command itself. Just that it's the first one. No way this is a one and done sort of order. Fuck me. I could be screwed.

I scrape my claws down his chest as I lower my mouth to the buckle. On the way down, I have no confidence that my teeth can actually pull off this request. But when I'm there, my mouth dragging across the thin dress pants separating me from that large gift he wants to give me, my teeth have ambitions of their own. Fuck it, I'll just gnaw off the shiny strip of black leather, if I can't get the buckle to unlatch.

Luckily, mauling his accessories, like a hungry dog with a rawhide, will _**not**_ be necessary. He's helping guide the end of the belt out of its loops toward freedom.

But it's _my_ bite that tugs it tight enough that the clasp pops outta that tiny hole. Jingling clanks of metal herald my victory. This part will be easy. I hook my tongue through the metal rectangle and snake my head past his hips, unlacing the belt from the two loops remaining.

First challenge met. Adrenaline rush. That came off fairly sexy judging by the expression I catch out of the corner of my eye. Let's get a better look.

I right myself, mouth open, tip of my tongue still glued to the roof of my mouth, belt dangling from it's wet hook. My eyebrows say 'Next?' as I drop the belt with a clang on the hard tiles. But I'm not too cocky. I don't really want more difficult challenges to pace me outta this event. Despite my come on, I'm flying blind here.

"Your turn" he says, leaning in to my neck, and biting it lightly.

Oh thank god and every holy place on her green sweet beautiful earth! He wants to take turns!? The weight of every failed BDSM fantasy ever written lifts off my shoulders. I was gonna be a horrible submissive by the end of wherever my fears were going, anyway. I could just kiss him for making this right turn.

Good idea. Kissing him on the mouth with both hands on either side of his neck, drawing him closer, giving him my gratitude in every taste of his now acid tongue, that's what I need to be doing. He's even more delicious this time. Ah, it did work. The proof is in those hormones. He tastes like desire now.

And I must too, because I think I just fell in love with him because of that little plot twist. I hum gratefully into his mouth, unable to suppress the thrill that he _wants_ me to have a turn.

I don't harbor any illusions that it's because he likes, or even respects, me, as a person. He doesn't even know me. I'm so happy because that's just who he is, what he wants for **himself** is to take turns. That is way sexier and lovelier than I had ever hoped for. I'm surprised. And happily. But… Oh fuck, love? Suddenly, I'm even more screwed then I thought I was in a power play.

He pulls away from the kiss as it naturally ends.

"Was that your turn?"

"No, No. I was just excited. Uh…" What to ask for my turn? Think quick and don't let it be lame. I want _**another **_turn after this one. Or at least the option.

"Here," I twirl myself around to fit my buttocks neatly into the curve of his hips. Arching to find where I can best place that stiff focal point. Hmm, too tall.

"Spread your legs," I kick lightly at both his ankles so he can feel his way in the direction of widening them. He slides his feet further away from each other, his face lightening with the game afoot.

"There," I rub my appreciation over the perfect fit.

"Now," I continue, "How about here?" I gather up his forearms and hands and press them up my torso until they wrap around me, both hands ending on ready breasts.

When he squeezes on his own, contracting his biceps so as to crush me into his chest in just the way I'd hoped, I task my hand with sweeping all the hair off my neck, brushing it to one side.

"Now, Here," I tap one finger to the back of my neck, still grinding my gratitude out on the crease of his lap.

He brings his lips to hover there, over the tiny hairs still too short to be herded with the mature strands.

He intones, "Here?"

Was there such a thing as molten honey?

If there was, _**he**_ was doing the voiceovers for their commercials. No doubt a hundred thousand barrels would be sold to trendy eco-permaculture-obsessed hipsters. Yep, they'll be lathering their quinoa pita with whatever he is pimping by week's end. Oh my god. I wanted _**that sound **_on my phone. That sound was so much sexier because now he knew _exactly _what he was doing to me.

"Yesssss."

My back arched away like a taut bow so I could press my hips and neck closer to him, and still strangle out all the desire wracking my body into a thin line.

He must have appreciated my configuration too, because he gave a little "Mmm," before using his grip on my hips to rock me forward and then bump me back down a little harder onto his lap.

Like a ball player punching and fisting out the palm of his glove, he repeated the motion a few times to feel out the best fit. I could almost hear him asking himself, _'__Would this work? Is this a good enough angle?__'_ His body was talking to mine in thrusts, as he bounced me into him again. I was already putty. He could have asked me to fuck against the drive-thru menu at this point and I wouldn't have thought twice.

"You wanna try this?"

Halleluia. No waiting.

"Yesssssssss."

* * *

I step my legs to the outside of each of his, clicking my heals down into the slick tiles like I was digging in tent spikes for a windy day. I hear him rip his own zipper down.

Elongating my spine away from his mouth, I swan dive, slowly, heart open, hips rolling back, until my wrists and forearms can rest on the stall wall.

Oh right, I slide two fingers into my hidden seam, and produce the crinkly little package that is going to save my night from crushing disappointment.

"No need," He takes it outta my fingers and slides it into his back pocket. I crane my neck a little to catch the explanation, but I've no intention of collapsing my position until I figure it out.

Then I hear the rip of plastic, and snap of latex. Of course, he has his own. Probably his signature fit and preferred gauge of thickness, and _**much**_ later expiration date than my pathetic insurance policy.

Let's not think about how often he does this.

Let's just make sure he wants to do it again…with me.

I was already turned on enough for round two, and he hadn't even unrolled the rubber down to the hilt yet. Wait, I'm still…

Oh, no worries, there are his fingers sliding up my hips, looping around my bikinis. Ooooo. In a rush, to get those off, are we? Very nice.

I hate waiting.

Now can we find again the beautiful little rocking motion that preambled the peeling process to get us here?

There, his hands on my hips, a rock forward and a slow guide back to….. THAT**'**s exactly what I've been waiting for…in exactly the spot it needs to start. Are you gonna pull me back onto it, or shall…

Oh, yeah, you are, more please. No?

Another little rock forward, followed by more length inside.

No, still not done introducing ourselves. This time the dipping forward brings me almost to the wall, and back down onto him, his grip pulling our fit toward completion.

That can't be it, he hasn't exhaled yet. Away again, and this time? Deeper, a little deeper, "Aye!" yes!

Oh, that's not all? "Ahh-unh!"

Really, I squeaked? Already?

This is just his starting length? "Fu….hhhh me." My breath swears unsupervised as my mouth crushes itself into the back of my forearm.

Apparently, that's not an entirely unpleasant sound, or sensation for him, either, because…

"You ready, Mama-cita?"

I wager words aren't really one of the available options I'm working with, so I don't stop my hand when it drop swings back toward his hip, grabs onto his one buttock cheek and jerks him into my hips like a stubborn emergency brake that I'm yanking to release.

"Ha!" escapes his chest before the next thrust begins in earnest. Sounds like he's getting a kick outta a girl who wants it as much as he does, even though our alternating roles as aggressor keep breaking the flow.

But, I have a feeling that is about to change. The interruptions, I mean. I'm still in a little shock that this is really happening and with so much raw material already in play. My imagination is squee-ing over the possibilities of where we are headed.

The first few pumps elicit a bigger reaction from him than I dared hope for. He's growling between pants, a little louder each time, obviously surprised himself at how much sensation he's getting. His knees bend a little more each time to help his hips get more movement. This is not a sound, or motion, for the first leg of intercourse. There's something more going on for him.

And then on the next thrust I feel it too. "Hhhhhuh" That is no joke. Oh please do that again. "Deeeee- tek- tivvvvvvvve"

He's proceeding whether I vocalize or not. He's making enough noise for both of us, his grunts and pwhuuuhhh's of breath blowing out behind me are the sexiest thing I've heard to date. From anyone. E-ver. But if this is the on-ramp, I'm lobbing my hopes up for him to friggin' _**roar**_ before we are done here.

The first wave of culminating sensation hits. *mind blanking* Am I calling "Javiii?" Is that my voice?

My eyes start working again. I'm still anchored into the wall? Why is that?

I release my wrists from the wall and my back from holding my torso parallel to the floor. He's driving these thrusts, so there's not much I can do to help that. And bouncing into him would just throw a wrench in his Coltrane-like, un-improvable rhythm. But I _can_ help with the angle, that's kinda my specialty.

Slowly, so as not to jar the baseline of music created by each percussive beat of my hips against his groin, I unwind my spine down toward the floor. Without anything to hold onto as I lower, I am dangling myself like a heavy snake lowering through branches, swinging, then recurving the vertebra to allow for a smooth descent.

My hair sweeps onto the floor, one of his panting breaths turns itself into a "Ah-ah!" Effective! I'm so pleased he can feel this, but there is still more I can do.

My hands reach for my ankles, easy find. I run my palms over the length of my legs, grazing my finger tips along his quadriceps as I go. Another pleasurable sound from him, but he's not distracted enough to stop. Thank god. Keep going. Oh please, Javier. Keep. Doing. That. Exactly.

As my hands run back down my legs and his, by proximity, I remember. His Ankles! Oh the lightest little skims of finger tips, over his leg cuffs. Let's not worry him into stopping, or accidentally blow a hole in these floor tiles. Oh, there is definitely something here under this one. Ugh. Wave of sensation. Dizzy grey blankness. My own voice sighing in pleasure-pained sound, "Ehhh-oww-ehh-ehh," comes back to my ears, drawing me back to the room.

With deft sliding fingers I gently slide his pant leg up a little to see the small back-up piece strapped to his ankle. My mind floods with a few images of him standing, walking, running, with all the responsibility that this small black object requires him to strap onto his shoulders. That's enough. I don't want to push my luck. Maybe just the smallest slide of my middle finger tip across the bottom of the grip so I can feel how hard it is? He won't even notice. See? Yummy, and no kaboom!

"Ah-Ah-Ah" That was him, I don't have much time.

I rock my tailbone even further toward the sky, closing his entrance with physics.

"Mhmmm." He noticed!

I could probably…Ugh wait, too good, too much building sensation, "uhhhh…ahhhh-hhhhh-hhhhh." Okay, I'm still here. There's more, O my god there's actually more.

Now if I could get my hands planted on the floor, "Uh-uh" with enough weight that my foot could release up to…yes, and rest it on the toilet lid….

"Oh, Oh" I call out. Hundreds of tiny electric lines of latticed darting pulses are shooting up by body. The buzz of a thousand cell phones blowing up with ten thousand texts are pressed against my skin.

His "Aah-Aah" climbs an octave. He's too loud to make it much longer.

Cause "O my fucking…yes…" that is the spot, "Jaaa-viii, Ba-beee-eh-eeee."

My insides twist to wring out every last pleasurable drip of orgasmic wetness. It doesn't matter if I'm upside down anymore. My muscles are rigor mortis-ed into this position until my conscious brain can work out how to undo them. That'll be awhile.

"Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr -eh-eh -rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr" He's growling. Honest to goodness rage-growling!

Fuuuuuuck, that's _**my**_ ringtone. Every cell of my skin vibrates.

His aggression is the most life-affirming thing I've heard in years. It lands in the mythic realm that creates the human beast into something worth fighting for. Bursting out of the iron cage of discipline he's built around it, it's desperate, and flawed, and exploding to redeem itself.

I try to burn the rare sound into my flesh so that it will never leave me. I want to catch all of that dark red hotness before it rumble-roars off into the ether. I'm not ready to feel anything but its chakra scouring power thundering through me.

"Hawww Hawww Haw." His pants are gathering back into conscious control. He's slowly coming down. His thrusts slow to stillness.

Soon we'll need to pull apart. The tense anticipation to release my muscles from this contortionist's position is building, no matter how much my mind rails against the idea.

But before he's willing to disembark, he feels the need to curl his fingers painfully deep into my hipbone handles where his hands have been seated this whole time. He wants me to feel this moment, before its gone, one more time.

With a too-tight pincher grip, he pushes me away a few inches, just to slam me harder against him. The singular crash of our pelvic girdles is more jarring than anything that would produce pleasure. And anyway we are both basically numb after that climax.

This intentional, forceful little impact, and the "uh" he grunts with it, is just to say to me, _'__Feel This. Feel THIS. Damn that was good__…__.__' _'

…_teamwork,__'_ my mind fills in.

* * *

**PM me if you could laugh at this - cause I need to know you. **

**Fingers crossed now that I've got this bit of claptrap outta my system, I can resume writing my much more respectable T-rated summer fic. But, yeah, no promises, I'm not driving this train.**

**"Yo, Javi-lovers, where you at?" **


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